


the wood

by hesitatedkitykatt (cbofdrainbow)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Extended Metaphors, I have questions too, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Like, M/M, Metaphors, Sexual Metaphors, Smut, Weird, a lil, a lil like crack at some point, heavy metaphor, literature references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cbofdrainbow/pseuds/hesitatedkitykatt
Summary: And he came to me like an early autumn's grape, rich and ripen.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Jeon Wonwoo, Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Jeon Wonwoo, Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Jeon Wonwoo, Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Jeon Wonwoo, Jeon Wonwoo/Kim Mingyu, Jeon Wonwoo/Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi, Jeon Wonwoo/Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Jeon Wonwoo/Lee Seokmin | DK, Jeon Wonwoo/Original Character(s), Jeon Wonwoo/Reader, Jeon Wonwoo/Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Jeon Wonwoo/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Jeon Wonwoo/Yoon Jeonghan, all/jeon wonwoo, and so on - Relationship, i hope that's all possibility
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	the wood

**Author's Note:**

> (I did have an OTP in mind when I wrote this one but since there's no name dropping at all on both sides then um yep)

He expected me to be romantic and the truth was that I was, but of the dying eighteenth-century. And I was unashamed before I was anything suitable for a man who sold a well-plotted lie for 9 dollars each. I wrote more than a mountain of them.

When I looked at him, though, I couldn't bring out one single lie.

It's raining the day we first met so we both hated our first chapter.

He hated the cliche but had grown to love my humor.

I hated the weather but had grown to love him.

Even with that being said, there is a limit to bad jokes. One time he was shy away to hear my suggestion that the wood was good as a metaphor as it is an innuendo.

Perhaps not shy, but for sure cringe. Either way, he pulled the white blanket around his hip and turned to the side giggling. Not only did the blanket was white, but it was also so thin that it concealed nothing, nothing at all. From the top his neck, shoulders, and half of his back were bare, shining without any cover. After that, however slim, he was under the sheet. The half curve of his waist when lying charmed my eyes, his moonlight legs lay on top of each other, smooth as silk, only slightly parted, still enclosed the sacred thing I was more than dying _, dying_ to see. Didn't suffice that I had it buried in my very throat the other night. _Stars hidden between his legs. Stars in my mouth. Stars in my mind._

His--simply speaking--asses were very visible and it was unbearable how much I want to --very very simply speaking--do things. From literary to vulgar, massage, squeeze, split and fuck.

All that stupid blanket ever did was add the sensual to his body. It appeared like a sheer that covered the beauty. But I kept my hand perfectly to myself because I was waiting very crazy for words, any words. Couldn't he tell by then how much I cherish words, I sold them for a living.

Yes, I was tempted. Yes, I was thinking thoughts. None of them clean.

Yes, I would very much like to converse first, I was a sucker for his hellish deep voice.

_Prove?_ He had (finally) said.

He was Stella and I was Astrophile. There was a dark sky between us and each night I tear it apart like a conceited mortal.

I pressed my palm on his skin, it bloomed and unbosomed in red and lilac color. Gone before my eyes and reincarnate in my memory. I wandered, took the desire in my hand and felt it enlarged. My fingers pushed in his lower lips, red like rose petals, like cherry,....more like cherry...I know then that it would only be lively nature of sweet and swollen fruit that would suck my digits in and ooze out its juice around me with such anticipation.

For so long I was so starving that anything dangling from a tree had me tremble with greed. And he came to me like early autumn's grape, rich and ripen.

I'd love to make a red wine out of his flesh. I'd love to slowly dry him into my barrel. Yet, there, like the romanticist, I had him raw.

I had him in a very obscene manner. Throwing my head back, shoving him up, saying bad words.

We locked eyes. I slowed down as I wiped his honeyed teardrops. More than anything tempting and sweet, he was the essence of my being. The land am standing on while I live and sleep in when I die.

Holy, he was like land that clasped to my body. I felt him deeper and steadier than the coming of death. Everywhere.

He didn't think I could pass as an eighteenth-century romantic either. I was hardly consistent.

With all that shitty explanation we laughed and hugged and kissed and showered ourselves with the scent of love. Kept tugging, leisurely, hurriedly, rocking long and gradually rough, enough to wet our secret chamber with much more juicy liquid than the saliva we shared before. Then for a brief moment, we separated ourselves. We looked equally torn.

He took my hand in his. I rubbed his anklebone. We mentioned love like it's not the most overused word of any centuries.

For a moment we were just there lying, lying.

Love was real. The life we spend spending it was not. The way we talk about it like it would live longer than us was not.

For a minute more we were just there lying, lying.

We were still, still. Until we realize dicks didn't give a hoot about philosophy.

He parted his legs again. His inner thighs still very welcoming. Between them, his wood, and he signaled that we might get lost in it unless I full him with lust while I could still walk. So I went back with enthusiasm with my first step very forcefull, making sure it left a red trace at his entrance. We acted like travelers that run out of time.

And when we were satisfied with it, we have, much to our own enjoyment, graved an embarrassing amount of seed.


End file.
